The Seamstress
by TheYoungestCrazySister
Summary: It started innocently enough, but doesn't it always? Harry Osborn - or the Green Goblin, as the world knows him now - has become the modern day Boogeyman. People think that the spider venom drove him insane. But it goes farther back than that. Harry X OC.
1. Prologue

**_Once upon a time..._**

* * *

...not so long ago, a monster was born in New York City. He was born in the basement of Oscorp Industries, his father's playground of glass, metal, and blood. The monster murdered his father's assistant, Donald Menken, mere moments after the monster's triumphant rebirth. He released Electro, the former electric engineer who eventually became a being of pure electricity, into the city. Thus, the city was drowned in blackness and at least a dozen people lost their lives. Shortly afterwards, the monster indirectly caused the New York vigilante, Spider-Man, to give up his role in people's safety and hearts.

In a matter of hours, the monster razed the city's beacon of light, casting it in the shadow of terror and desperation. No matter how quickly the issue was resolved, no matter how little time it took for Spider-Man to once again swing through the city that never sleeps, people did not forget. They did not forget the darkness wrapping around their eyes like blindfolds. They did not forget the distant, deadly choir of glass shattering and screams of agony. They never forgot how loudly the clock tower rang that night, a ripple in a sea of ink.

This was not the sort of monster you would see in a horror movie. He was not a vampire, werewolf, ghoul, ghost, or zombie. Some people have since described him as a zombie, mindlessly feeding on anyone's life regardless of the consequences. His greenish skin, mossy teeth, and empty stare had hardly discouraged the label.

Others characterized him as a ghost of his former self. An empty shell of the once charming, relatively well-to-do rich boy with the dimpled smile.

Despite his incarceration in Ravencroft Institute, people did not feel anymore secure. The Green Goblin was everywhere. A maggot-eaten leaf in Central Park was his pointed profile. Street lights on broken beer glass was the deranged glint in his gleaming eyes. Screeching metal tires was his cackle. A nearly demolished building was his outstretched hand equipped with claws.

Time passed. In the course of five months, the Green Goblin had become the modern-day Boogeyman. While many parents know better by now, there were handfuls of mothers and fathers who whispered in their children's ears. _'You'd better be good, kiddo. Otherwise, the Green Goblin's gonna come and get you. Every night you'll see him, and every night he'll come a little closer to your bed, until one night...'_

Only three people truly knew who the Green Goblin had been prior to his descent into madness.

One was his former best friend: Peter Parker. Or, to thousands of blissfully ignorant souls, Spider-Man. He'd watched with grief as his friend desperately fought against the illness that had claimed Mr. Osborn. He had listened, both with and without the mask, as his friend pleaded the city hero for a blood transfusion. He'd offered a boat, a plane, any sum of money that Spider-Man named. But Peter had not caved. He had gotten lucky with that radioactive spider bite. Some would've lost their minds. Others would've died or ended up deformed and in a world of pain.

Which horrendous would Harry have recieved, had Peter agreed?

Another person who had known Harry Osborn, however briefly, had been the love of Peter's life: Gwen Stacy. She had heard about the young heir to the Oscorp empire. She had envied him and admired him, but mostly had remained indifferent to him. When she'd learned of the illness that would eventually take his life, Gwen had felt something akin to pity for him. She had once spoken to Harry in the elevator; they had spoken of their mutual friend Peter. Harry had stated that Peter was 'complicated' and that he needed Gwen to 'help make his choices clear'. Gwen had been vaguely put off by the pale boy in black, but she had still found their first encounter jovial.

She had also been surprised to meet the friend he had made while studying abroad. The girl had been lively and eccentric, the polar opposite of composed and cool-headed Harry. But when she'd seen them together, Gwen had been convinced that the two had been born to be friends.

She never would've imagined that, a few short days later, he would've been the one to cut her life the same way a seamstress snips a thread.

The third person was someone who had grown up with him in the corridors of St. Mary's Boarding School. She had befriended him out of pity but came to truly care for him the way she had always wished her parents to do for her. She had seen Harry's desperation throw him into a hole that there was no getting out of, but she hadn't wanted to believe it. She had closed her eyes to the horror that used to be her best friend. Now, she has to live the rest of her life with the guilt weighing her down like an iron chain.

Her name was Georgina Thompson, but today, many people know her as 'the Seamstress'.

The Green Goblin. The Seamstress.

This is their story.


	2. Chapter 1: Safe

_"Ever since the Green Goblin's identity was revealed, journalists and paparazzi have been swarming at my doorstep. They've mentioned that Harry Osborn practically grew up in my school. Thus, I must have seen some sort of mental fracture. Mostly, they ask me if I ever saw the boy harassing others, breaking things for no reason, or even abusing animals. You know, some sort of warning sign that was overlooked. I just keep saying the same thing over and over: Harold Osborn could be impudent and spoiled, but he was not a monster. At least not then."_

_- Except from an interview with Principal Thomas St. Patrick, headmaster of St. Patrick's Boarding School. Printed on September 12th, 2014, three months after The Black And Green Night._

* * *

Chapter 1: Safe

* * *

Brilliant forks of lightning halved the obsidian sky as rain continued its pelting descent. Torrents of icy water poured into the gutters as the wind made the trees dance wildly. A combination of hail and rain swatted at the windows of St. Patrick's, threatening to shatter the thin barrier and swarm into the school like rats.

But it wouldn't find its way in. Principal Thomas St. Patrick had made sure of that. The glass windows were not mere items of beauty with their curved arches, golden frames, and nearly blinding shine. The glass was two inches thick as well, keeping the night and all of the monsters it hosted outside of his academy.

Rain wasn't the only peril Thomas had fought to be ready against. The academy was surrounded by a ten-foot brick wall, and the only way in was via a voice-activated fence. Serveillance cameras dotted the gardens, classrooms, dorms, and hallways and showed their findings on the ten computers in the staff room. There were two armed guards standing beside the front door at all times.

Many would ask why the principal of a boarding school would go to such extensive lengths to keep the academy safe. After all, they were in the middle of the New England countryside; the closest town was forty miles away. What could possibly harm them?

The answer? Everything, from hit-and-runs to attempted murder to burglars. Everything the children in his school were hiding from, to put it short.

His institute had been built for that very purpose: to take in children who had either been orphaned or had been subjected to violent circumstances. They were given a roof over their heads, food, clothing, and an education. While he recieved payment from child protector services or whatever relative a child still had, it was not mandatory. More than nine generations ago, his ancestor had built this academy from nothing. Thomas still had plenty of his family's fortune to cover expenses that a student's family could not afford.

His newest pupil, Harold 'Harry' Osborn, had had no such problem. His father, the famous Norman Osborn was the head of Oscorp Industries. It was, from what Thomas had heard over the years, a well-known company that specialized in experimental science, military research, and cross-species genetics. Mr. Osborn could easily purchase the school and have still enough money to live in luxury for the remainder of his days.

Whenever the name 'Osborn' was brought up, people would nod their heads and speak of how amazing the company's work was, how their scientific breakthroughs would someday be recorded in history books. Personally, Thomas saw nothing particularly admirable in Norman Osborn's work. Yes, scientific research was essential to sustain life, but why try to modify the human cell, the building block of life?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp beep of his phone. Sighing, Thomas ran a hand through his thinning hair and pressed a button. "Yes?"

"Sir?" Charlotte Miller, his secretary, spoke from the other end. Thomas nodded in recognition. "Yes, Charlotte?"

The woman sounded as nervous as a kid attending his first ice cream party. "The van's just returned from the airport. The Osborn boy...well, he won't leave the car."

Thomas stopped. "What?"

"He won't leave the car." Charlotte repeated in a slightly snappish tone. "The driver's told him to get out, and so have the guards. I've tried, too. But he won't budge." Thomas stared at the phone, his eyes the size of grapefruit, as his secretary's words sunk into his mind like water on desert soil. He imagined the boy - an _eleven-year-old boy_, for Christ's sake - sitting in the corner of the vehicle, eyes wide with fear and his name around his neck like breeding livestock.

_'History definitely enjoys repeating itself.'_ Thomas thought to himself grimly.

"Sir?" There was a note of panic in Charlotte's voice.

"Yes, yes." Thomas waved his hand as if swatting at a gnat. "I'll be there in a moment, Charlotte."

"You?" Even a deaf man could've detected the surprise in the woman's tone. Thomas's jaw tightened. "Yes, me. Give me a minute." He hung up without waiting for his stupefied secretary's response. Then, he opened a drawer and extracted a silver case with a matchbox taped to it. He pried the lid open, plucked out a cigar about the length and width of a hot dog, and placed it in between his lips. Next, he took a match, lit it on the surface of his desk, and ignited the end of his cigar. He inhaled deeply, allowing the sweet smoke to fill his lungs and cloud his mind. It was like breathing into his former self.

It helped him forget.

As puffs of smoke jetted out of his nostrils, Thomas rose from his leather chair and exited his office. He marched through the corridors, amid the ghosts of his life. Chandeliers from Venice and the Netherlands swung gently in the musky air. The lightning brought their faded colors to life. The soft rug, patterned with intertwining vines and flowers, muffled his footsteps. His descendants watched him from their dusty frames, sending chills down his spine even after all of these years.

He still recalled the first time he had been brought here. Thomas chewed on his cigar at the memory. He had been even younger than the Osborn child, only eight year of age. His parents had died during a burglary, and he had been forced to come live with his uncle. He still remembered walking through that heavy steel gate, carrying everything he owned in a little leather briefcase, as silent tears streamed down his face. More than fifty years later, he could recall the complete and utter loneliness he had felt, how the carpet had been yanked from under his feet and how he had been falling down, down, down, without anyone to catch him.

Little Harry Osborn, like so many of the children here, more than likely mirrored his sentiments to the letter. But unlike the majority of St. Patrick's students, Harry was not an orphan. His mother had grabbed whatever money she could find and escaped before Harry had even left the nursery. His father, on the other hand, was dying from some sort of hereditary disease whose name escaped Thomas's memory. Mr. Osborn had paid handsomely for his son, but had stated that he would not be visiting any time soon.

Thomas could not decide what was worse: being an orphan, or knowing that your parents were going on with their lives while you were thousands of acres away.

These thoughts roared in his mind as he pushed the polished wooden doors open. The icy, damp wind ran out and bit at his exposed flesh like a famished hound, and the rain's downpour threatened to deafen him. Nevertheless, Thomas puffed on his cigar again before walking into the rain without the aid of an umbrella. His well-polished shoes clanked against the small stones as he strided towards the van. The guards, driver, and Charlotte were huddled together under an umbrella. When they saw him, their eyes brightened.

Charlotte rushed out from the umbrella's protection and stopped when she was in front of Thomas. Her strawberry-blonde hair was a soaked mess, and her running make-up made her look like a sad clown. But Thomas hardly cared; he'd never been one to judge people for their physical appearances. "Well?" He asked as he pulled the cigar out of his mouth.  
Charlotte wrought her hands nervously. "I'm sorry, sir. I've tried everything, but he won't leave the car. It's like talking to a wall."

A smile tugged at Thomas's lips. "Let's see if I can hammer it down." With that, he placed the cigar in his mouth again and made his way towards the van. The backseat's door was already open, and the cotton seat was dark with moisture. In the far corner, a boy crouched with his knees propped against his chest. Thomas knelt down and examined the boy.

He was very thin, highlighted by the large black overcoat he was wearing. His clothes reeked of wealth, but it looked _wrong_ somehow. Like a kid playing dress-up. The boy's light brown hair, previously neatly combed, was matted and plastered to his forehead. His thin, slightly pointed face was the color of fermented milk. Even from this distance, Thomas could see the silver tearstains on the boy's sallow cheeks. His eyes were a pale blue that, in this wan light, seemed almost colorless. His plump red lips trembled at the sight of another unfamiliar face, and he pushed himself farther against the wall.

Thomas's heart immediately went out to the boy. He looked so terrified, like a lamb being led to the altar.

Thomas held a hand out. "It's okay." The boy - Harry - pushed himself even farther away. Thomas, in turn, retracted his hand. "We're not going to hurt you. We're going to take care of you from now on."

"W-why?" The word was so low that it could've been another gust of wind. Fresh tears made Harry's eyes glassy. "Why am I here? What did I do wrong?"

"You haven't done anything wrong, lad." Thomas shifted from one foot to another. "Your father..." He trailed off, unsure of what to say. "Your father's going through a bit of a rough time at the moment, and he doesn't want you to see him like that. Soon, you'll be home again."

Harry continued to stare at him, but there was something other than fear in his eyes now.

Taking courage from that, Thomas continued. "You're safe here, m'boy. I promise you."

Harry blinked very slowly, like an owl. "S-safe?"

"Safe." Thomas nodded with a smile. "No one will hurt you here. I swear it."

Harry didn't protest, but he didn't climb out of the vehicle either. Thomas did not speak, but he kept his eyes on the boy. As the meaningless moment ticked by, they stared at each other. Harry scanned the man's face, searching for signs of deceit, before finally giving the smallest of nods. "Okay."

Thomas's eyebrows threatened to leap off his face. "Okay?"

Another jerky nod. "Okay." With that, he gathered his backpack from the seat and hugged it to his chest like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. Then, very slowly, he made his way out of the car. Thomas stepped aside as Harry's small feet landed on the cobblestones for the first time. Charlotte's jaw dropped, but she nevertheless held her spare umbrella over Harry's head. Thomas gently patted the boy's shoulder and couldn't help noticing how bony it was. It was like touching a hollow stone.

_'I'll have to tell the chef to make sure this boy eats.'_ Thomas turned to Charlotte. "Please take him to the boys' dorms. He'll be sharing a room with Nathan."

Charlotte nodded and wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Come along, dear."

Harry came along, but not before glancing at Thomas one last time.


	3. Chapter 2: Hurt

_"According to many eye witnesses, a bright green flash soared through the black sky shortly after the unwelcome reappearance of Electro. A few people mistook the flash for some sort of green comet or a jet. But those who'd utilized binoculars and telescopes got a clear shot of the young man atop the glider. Apparently, the Green Goblin had business to attend to outside of New York._

_He was later spotted in New England, flying straight towards St. Patrick's Boarding School. Immediately afterwards, bombs were dropped through the roof and into the dining hall, where the seniors had been attending their end-of-the-year prom. While we are still uncertain of the death toll, we have already uncovered the charred bodies of 52 students. According to five survivors, all of the prom attenders recognized their old schoolmate and laughed at him. The laughter stopped when the first bomb fell. That's when the screaming began. Behind me, people here are still crying. Nobody's laughing anymore."_

_- The CNN reporter describing the destruction of St. Patrick's Boarding School during the Black and Green Night._

* * *

Chapter 2: Hurt  


* * *

Students were like hyenas, ready to pick off the new, weak-looking zebra from the herd. That was a lesson that Georgina Thompson had learned a year ago, when she'd been transferred to St. Patrick's Boarding School after four years of homeschooling. It was like wearing an invisible sign around your neck that other students can see. They can sense your vulnerability and shyness, and they pounce on you like tiger when a steak is tossed into its pen.

At first, the taunts and insults had cut Georgina deeper than swords. She would cry herself to sleep every night, dreading the school day looming in the horizon. She would walk down these polished, ancient hallways with her books tightly hugged to her chest and her fiery hair hiding her face like a knight's helmet. She would spend entire days not talking to anyone except for her roommate, and her grades suffered from her refusal to raise her hand in class.

But then, when her uncle had been forced to separate her from her roommate, he had asked her what was wrong. Reluctantly, she had told him. He then had taken it on himself to teach her to turn a deaf ear to her schoolmates' jabs. After all, she couldn't spend her life expecting to be sheltered. One day, she would have to face her tormentors alone; this was the perfect training.

The result was, a year later, even her mocking nickname did little to anger her.

"Hey, Night Crawler!" A girl called from across the dining hall. "Catch any bugs to eat last night?" The comment sent a ripple of laughter spreading across the girl's table, but Georgina focused on the plate of steaming, rusty brown bacon in front of her. Licking her lips in anticipation, she dug her fork into three strips and dropped them on her tray. Then, she moved to the fruit section of the banquet table and helped herself to a bowl of canned peaches. Next, she walked towards the bread section and selected two croissants. Finally, Georgina filled her mug with chocolate milk and made a beeline for her usual solitary table.

The chair squeaked in protest as she seated herself. Humming to herself, she took a sip from her chocolate milk and bit into one of the croissants. Steam rose into the air as her teeth tore the thin dough away. The exposed interior was hot as coals, making the incisions on her hands sting, but Georgina hardly minded. She'd gotten too many lacerations in her lifetime to care.

_'But none are like theirs...'_

Georgina shook the thought away before fear could root itself into her heart. It took a couple of deep breaths but the terror, as familiar as a childhood toy, eventually dwindled away. Its absence was like salve on an open blister. As she finished her croissant and attacked a strip of bacon, Georgina heard conversation stirring at the table next to hers. Good. She needed a distraction.

"Did you hear about the newbie?"

"_Hear_ about him? I _saw_ him! He came in yesterday, while we were all on break."

"Really? What's he like?"

A snort of laughter. "Dunno, didn't talk to him. But he looks like a crack addict."

Georgina wrinkled her nose at the less than flattering description.

"But how old is he?"

"I don't know, he's skinny as hell. Maybe nine?"

"Jesus...oh, hey! Is that him?" Many heads, including Georgina's turned towards the pointed finger. The image that met the girl's eyes would bury itself deep into her mind and glow like a firefly for many years afterwards.

If she had to guess, Georgina would have said that the boy was even younger than nine. He was about her height, five foot two, with skin as pale and flawless as an infant's. The boy has light brown hair that had been combed over the right side of his face, and he wore a crisp white shirt and black dress pants. A gold watch that looked like it could feed a family of four was clasped around his wrist like a prison manacle. But the thing that she couldn't stop staring at was his aura. The boy kept his eyes on his tray and walked a little jerkily. When he finally (barely) filled his plate, he found a seat on an empty table and huddled up against himself like he wanted to disappear.

The boy reminded Georgina so much of herself that it was like stepping into a time-machine. She could see his emotions as though they'd been tattooed on his smooth, pale forehead. Scared. Alone. Confused. Detached from everyone else.

She put her fork down, planted her doughy hands on either side of the table, and hoisted herself out of her chair. At the table next to hers, one girl - Janet Jones, Georgina realized with annoyance - giggled with her hand over her mouth. "Hey, Night Crawler, looks like you found your future husband."

Georgina's eyes narrowed into slits, but she remained reticent.

Janet laughed again before mockingly putting a hand over her heart. "Night Crawler and Mantis Boy. It's perfect! You two can have lots of insect babies together."

That was too much. It was one thing to taunt Georgina - she was used to it by now - but to tease a poor, lonely kid who hadn't even been here for a day...

Georgina took her mug of chocolate milk and emptied it on Janet's lap. Janet shrieked like a bat as half a dozen heads twisted towards the noise. Janet was reduced to tears as she uselessly dabbed at the stain. "My jeans...that tub of lard ruined my jeans!" Georgina smirked victoriously as she climbed out of her seat and headed for the door, stuffing the rest of her breakfast in her pockets. As she left the dining hall, she happened to glance up and saw the new boy staring at her. His face was the color of frozen milk and his mouth was a thin line, but Georgina thought she saw a glimmer of amusement there. Georgina sent him a weak smile before leaving the cafeteria.

She didn't see him trying to mirror her expression.

* * *

The rest of the day was surprisingly uneventful. By the end of third period - Art, Georgina's favorite subject - her uncle had heard about her less than ladylike action against Janet. Thus, Georgina was forced to attend detention during break. While she kept it to herself, she was fine with the prospect. She enjoyed her solitude and the peaceful silence that came with it.

The afternoon classes were the same as on any other day. Georgina counted the tiles in the ceiling during algebra, checked out two books during library time, and played with a rubber band during biology. During the day, however, Georgina found herself glimpsing at the new boy - who the teachers introduced as Harry Osborn - from time to time. The moment the newbie's name was announced, Georgina could see the change in atmosphere. Many whispered to their neighbors in disbelief, while others eyed him with newfound envy and admiration.

From that moment on, the students swarmed around Harry like flies hovering over a tasty morsel of food. One boy with thick glasses offered to do Harry's biology homework. A girl asked him if he really lived in a mansion like some people claimed. A bunch of aspiring technicians questioned him on his father's company. More than once, Georgina spotted a few students reaching into Harry's pockets in search of a wallet.

It really was amazing, how easily people - no matter how young - could be bought.

But Harry's newfound status as a popular kid - perhaps the most popular in school - was blown to bits during the last class of the day: Physical Education.

Everybody at St. Patrick's Boarding School learned something of fundamental importance that day. Harry may have been, for lack of a better term, filthy rich. He may have a father whose face frequently on glossy magazine covers. He may have had clothes of a price that would make most people's breath hitch in their throats. But he was a terrible gymnast.

During dodgeball, he was out of the game within the first minute. A red rubber ball hit him square in the face, and he was seated on the bench with a bloody napkin over his nose for most of the period. Eventually, the bleeding stopped and Coach Rogers claimed that Harry could rejoin the lesson.  
Volleyball was even worse. If he didn't send the ball slamming against the net, he missed it altogether. By the end of the game, his teammates despised him while the other team mockingly applauded him.

The icing on the cake was swimming, when Coach Rogers split the class into teams and announced that they would be playing pool volleyball. The winning team would receive ten extra points on their grade. Harry stood in the corner, his shoulders hunched and his hands twisting. His skin was so pale that Georgina could see the dark blue veins carrying blood through his body. Harry stared at the game as though it were the only thing in the world that mattered, and Georgina could practically see the thought bubble hovering above his head.

_'Please don't make me play, please don't make me play, please don't make...'_

The ball sailed through the air, over the dripping outstretched hands, and landed with a splash directly in front of Harry. The laughter and conversation that had ruled the air up until a minute ago dissipated completely. Everyone turned to look at Harry as the ball continued to float towards him. Harry's pale blue eyes darted from the ball to his peers, looking entirely lost.

"Osborn!" Coach Rogers called. "Pass the ball to the other side."

Harry gave a twitchy little nod before picking up the ball. Georgina could see his hands shaking even from ten feet away. He glanced at the other team before tossing the ball in the air and smacking it.

But it didn't reach the other side. Instead, it nailed the back of Janet's head. The girl yelped as she fell face first into the clear water, and cackles erupted like a stick of dynamite. Just for a moment, the tension vanished and Harry was one of them again. Georgina allowed herself to smile, and that was the first time she saw Harry nervously grin. But then Janet broke the surface, sputtering, before facing Harry. She laughed in his face, but there was no merriment in that sound.

"Eat s_hit_, Mantis Boy." She said between giggles as she sent the ball flying at Harry again. It hit him on the forehead, sending him a step back. Laughter broke out again, along with the chorus of 'Mantis Boy'. Within minutes, it seemed that the entire gymnasium was chanting it. Blood rose to Harry's cheeks, like he was standing in a red light. He spun around, climbed out of the pool, and raced out of the gym. His classmates' laughter followed him all the way to the changing room. Georgina took this as a cue to stand up from the bench and follow him.

It wasn't difficult in the slightest. If the wet footprints were not enough, the weeping from the men's room definitely sufficed.

Georgina felt pity stir within her as she cautiously stepped into the men's room. The place stank of sweat, urine, and sadness. She glanced at the clothes hanging on their hooks and piles of socks on the floor. She noticed her bulky figure in the foggy mirror, and the puddles of water felt like ice under her bare feet. Finally, she spotted the new boy. He was sitting in one of the shower stalls, his back against the tiles and his face in his hands.

"Harry?" She spoke softly, as if talking to a startled deer. Harry looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. Fear overtook his features, and he scooted farther away from her. "Hey, hey, hey." She knelt down and held her hands in front of her. "It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Harry didn't answer, but he didn't back away either. A green bubble of snot formed in his nostril, which he wiped away with the back of his hand. Georgina shifted her weight from one ankle to another. "I'm sorry about what happened back there." She said, aware of how corny it sounded. "They're just...they always go after the new guy. It's like a sport to them. Tomorrow will be way better."

Harry shook his head. "Please stop trying to trick me." His voice was so quiet that Georgina almost missed it. Her jaw dropped. "I'm not trying to trick you."

"You are." Harry pushed himself against the cold tile wall. "You just want my money. Like them."

"No I don't, Harry. Really." Georgina spoke with her heart, but her words fell like autumn leaves around Harry's ears. "This was supposed to be safe..." Tears filled his eyes, but he wiped them away. "Go away."

"Harry-"

"**_NOW!_**" He roared in her face. Georgina fell on her bum as the last of Harry's despair echoed from the room. He continued to stare at her with nothing short of contempt. Georgina's jaw tightened, and she got to her feet with a bit of assistance from the wall. "Fine." With that, she spun on her heel and marched out of the changing room. The moment she was in the hallway, though, she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.

It hurt. It hurt to see someone getting bullied. It hurt even more when you reached out to them and they slapped your hand away.

But if Harry wasn't going to let her in, Georgina would stop knocking.


	4. Chapter 3: Broken Clock

_"Retroviral Hypodisplasia is a riddle that the medics of this world has been trying to solve for decades. It has been nicknamed the 'Zombie Disease' because of the horrifying disfigurements it causes the victim. The few facts that are known is that it is a hereditary disease that first developed in the early 1900's, or earlier still. Its origin remains a mystery even to this day. However, it has been rumored that it may have existed in history, but the atomic bombings and radiation caused the illness to worsen and become more prominent. Another rumor claims that it is a recessive illness, but inbreeding causes the illness to become more prominent. Others say that William Osborn, one of the first men of the Osborn line, attempted to prolong his life by making a substance that would stop his body from aging. However, the herbs and salves he acquired ended up worsening his physical state.  
_

_Symptoms appear in early adulthood and quickly progress for approximately ten years. From what little doctors were able to learn, the ailment causes the body to decompose while the person is still alive. It begins with the skin changing color, growing bloated, and developing a putrid odor. Then, the muscles begin to weaken and the bones break far more easily. Next, the organs begin to experience multiple failures until, finally, the blood becomes black and the person dies._

_One of the most well-known cases is the Osborn family, whose male line is said to carry this horror. It has even been called 'the Osborn curse'. Since the family's birth over two hundred years ago, one out of three male adults of the Osborn line have died of Retroviral Hypodisplasia. Norman Osborn lasted the longest. Many jokingly say that, if the tale of William Osborn is true, then the man sealed his family's fate. Becase to live forever...is to rot forever."_

_- Excerpt from 'The Green Enigma', an article written by Dr. Nick Taylor, a survivor of the Black and Green Night._

* * *

Chapter 3: Broken Clock  


* * *

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. _

Every second passed, marked by the clock's incessantly moving hand. They slipped like sand between Norman Osborn's green, rotting fingers. Each second lost wasn't going to be recuperated, not by money or luck or God. Not even by the Osborn name, something that had helped Norman get away with an uncountable number of stunts. For the first time in his life, Norman lacked something that so many people take for granted: health.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Pale blue and green holograms floated in front of his face as letters and numbers scrolled down. Their coded meanings flowed into Norman's brain like a river rushing into an ocean. His clawed hand gingerly rose from the perfumed linen sheet and pressed a holographic button. The images of a DNA strand formed, and as Norman watched, it began to decay and fall apart like a corpse.

Like the corpse _he_ would be if he didn't find a cure.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Norman suddenly let out a scream and grabbed the digital clock. It cut through the air like a dagger through silk and crashed against the wall. Bits of plastic and machinery rolled across the smooth floor, and the clock's face blankly stared at him like a dead eye. Norman scrunched his lips before looking away. He tried to immerse himself in his work again, the same way he had for the past twenty years, but his mind was no longer there. It was on the broken clock on the floor, staring at him, reprimanding him, reminding him of the time running out.

If he could, he would have swept up the clock and thrown it in the garbage. But, alas, he couldn't. Norman Osborn had been confined to his bed for months now, and every movement was like rolling on hot coals. If it weren't for the machines surrounding his bed and filling his ears with their beeping melody, Norman was certain that he would have died by now.

_'Oh, kids think it's so much fun to sit around in bed all day. But it's worse than a prison.'_

But he was in a prison, even if one removed the bed from the equation. It was only a matter of time until...

Tears formed in the corners of Norman's eyes. He wiped them away, leaving tiny blood scratches as he did so. He couldn't cry. He had to find a cure, not just a concoction that slowed the process. He needed to, or he was only going to prolong his suffering...and Harry's.

An image floated in his mind, a ghost from the past. He saw the last time he'd seen Harry: it had been the morning the boy had left for boarding school. Norman had watched him stand on the cobblestone road as the butler stored his suitcase in the limosine's trunk. It was truly amazing, how much he resembled his mother. The same pallid skin, light brown hair, pale blue eyes...yet there had been a sense of recognition when Norman looked at him. He could see himself in the boy's gangly body, in his trembling hands, and the way his eyes always studied his well-polished shoes. Would Harry become a confident, no-nonsense CEO like Norman was, or would he send the Oscorp empire toppling like LEGO's in the sand? Only time would tell.

Time. Tick-Tock. The broken clock's face glowered at him. Norman growled and punched the nightstand. Glass syringes and cylinders collapsed onto the floor, spilling their fluids.

"Shit!" Norman pressed a button on his armrest. "Nurse, I need my medicine now."

"Y-yes, Mr. Osborn. Right away, sir." Barely three minutes passed before a nurse rushed into the room, a silvery tray of syringes in her hands and a concerned look plastered on her face. Norman ushered her towards him; the moment she was close enough, he snatched a syringe filled with green liquid. With a trembling hand, he held the silver needle over his arm's vein. As he did, he tried not to recoil at the green tinge, or the dark green veins spreading across the flesh like a spider web. He held his breath to avoid smelling the sweet, nauseating stench of decomposition.

"Oh, sir!" The nurse hurried forward. "I should be the one to-"

"-to be silent, yes." Norman's voice was laced with steel. The nurse halted in her tracks, much to Norman's relief. "Now, you're going to stay there until I'm done. Then, you're going to clean up this mess and bring me a cup of coffee. If you do otherwise, you'll be out of here before you have time to blink. Understood?"

The nurse gave a feeble nod. Norman flashed her a smile of rotting, mossy teeth. "Good." With that, he plunged the needle into his flesh. The liquid drained from the syringe and entered his bloodstream. Norman sighed and closed his eyes as he felt some of his strength return. He leaned against the soft comfort of his pillow as his skin reclaimed its pinkish tone and the rotting smell lessened. He took a deep breath; he could still feel the liquid bubbling in his lungs, but it was more bearable than before. Norman opened his eyes to the sound of the nurse sweeping the broken glass away with a broom. But only a portion of his mind was focused on the present.

He was thinking about the future. With a pinch of luck, he might find a cure. If not for himself, maybe he could make one for his son. Blood runs deep, and there were more chances than not that Harry would one day inherit the Osborn curse. But in the meantime, let the boy enjoy his life. Let him remain ignorant of his father's state. That was why Norman had sent Harry to St. Patrick's, no matter how much it had pained him. Maybe he'd made a mistake. He knew that Harry would think that Norman hadn't wanted him. The boy would feel abandoned. Who knew? Maybe Norman had made a mistake.

But even a broken clock is right twice a day.


	5. Chapter 4: Fractured Fairy Tales

_"I remember Harry Osborn. He was a quiet, mousey little thing. For the first year, he kept to himself and never said more than two words to anyone. Janet loved to pick on him, but until Grade 6, it never went beyond verbal teasing. I think she made fun of him so much because, mostly, he didn't react. He would just sit there and lower his head. And when he _**did**_ react, it was never enough to make her stop. Well, except for that night... _

_I went along with it whenever Janet started. A part of me screamed at me to stop, but I just kept going. Why? Because I wanted to be popular. It's a stupid, superficial reason. But ask anyone in high school why they do mean things and, chances are, at least one of them will say the same thing. Now that I'm in my mid-twenties, I realize how much damage I helped cause. I've done things that I wish I never had. If I could take it all back, I would."_

_- Excerpt from 'We Survived the Black and Green Night'. This section of the article was written by Carly Daniels. Printed on November 14th, 2014._

* * *

Chapter 4: Fractured Fairy Tales  


* * *

Ever since the pool incident, life at St. Patrick Boarding School progressed as it always had. When the clock struck seven, its shattering gong awakened the students. They had an hour to wash up, put on their school uniform, and make their beds before breakfast was served in the dining hall. Then, they had to be in class by nine o'clock sharp. From there, aside from a twenty-minute lunch and recess, classes continued until three o'clock.

As the days transformed into weeks, assignments took up more of the students' time. The golden afternoons shortened and grew cool as the younglings spent their days in their dorms typing reports, playing their assigned musical instruments, and solving algebra equations. Because St. Patrick's still relied on typewriters, writing reports often took up thrice the amount of time. The older students were not above swearing whenever they had to start all over again, either.

Georgina Thompson did her work with less than diligence and enthusiasm, and she spent her classes counting the ceiling tiles or staring at the scenery outside. Whenever she could, she entered the courtyard in search of a new treasure to add to the chest beneath her cot.

The same chest - well, an old jewelry box, in truth - sat beside her now. A blank sheet of paper, white as winter's first snow, was placed in front of her. Her favorite fountain pen - a gift from her grandmother, the only one who bothered to remember Georgina's birthday - was in her fleshy fist. And yet, she could not write anything down.

For perhaps the fifth time that afternoon, Georgina groaned and leaned back in her chair. She rubbed her eyes, pushing them deep into their sockets, as she cursed Proffessor Harrison. That was out of the norm: the literature teacher was one of the few staff members that did not put Georgina to sleep. He often selected books that covered topics she enjoyed reading about: Beowulf, Perseus and Medusa, and the Loch Ness Monster. Once a month, he chose a play that the class had to act out. At the end of each completed book, the class watched a cinematic adaptation of the story. Proffessor Harrison was fun, interesting, and lively.

And yet, the assignment he had given the class today had been like a brick to the head: out of nowhere, shocking, and painful afterwards.

"Stories are a powerful thing, arguably more so than weapons, television, and shelter." He'd told the class earlier that day. "They widen your view on the world, give you an escape during times of hardship, and help you understand that the impossible is possible." He had grinned, the whiskers on either side of his upper lip erect. "I'm sure you all have a story to tell, each and every one of you." He'd wagged his finger. "I'm not going to ask you to write about your families, special events, or anything like that. Oh, no." His smile had threatened to half his face. "For tomorrow, I want you all to write and present an original short fairy tale."

The shouts of protest had risen more quickly than the tide during heavy rainfall. He'd risen his hands, stained black from a lifetime of writing, and silenced them in an instant. "Don't get your knickers in a knot. I'm only asking for one and a half to two pages."

Insert more shouted complaints: here.

Georgina smirked as she closed her eyes, remembering.

* * *

_"Oh, enough!" There was a hint of iron in Harrison's normally cheery voice. Everyone caught on, thankfully, and fell silent. Pleased, he gave them a smile and pointed at the clock. "We have twenty minutes until the end of class. You can get started now. Oh, and Mr. Osborn?" Several heads twisted to look at Harry, who looked like a deer swarmed by wolves. Professor Harrison sent him a knowing smile. "Don't think that I don't know that this assignment scares the hell out of you."_

_Several students chuckled while Harry developed a sudden interest in the doodles on his desk. Georgina sent him a sympathetic look, but he either ignored it or failed to see it. Either way, the sound of scribbling pen nibs rushing across paper filled the air. Janet, who was seated behind Harry, snickered as she tore a page of her notebook and rolled it into a ball. She threw it - hard - and it bounced off the back of Harry's head with a loud crunch. "Bull's eye!" Janet hissed triumphantly. Several of her lap-dogs giggled obediently while Harry's face became the color of a turnip._

_Chuckling to herself, Janet rolled up another paper ball and flung it at Harry's head. This time, it cuffed his ear. Harry winced before twisting in his chair. "Stop it!" He whispered._

_"What's going on back there?" Proffessor Harrison called, barely looking up from his papers._

_"He's copying my work!" Janet shrilly indignantly. Harry and Georgina's jaws dropped simultaneously. Many students chattered excitedly. Proffessor Harrison sent Janet a hard look. "I know the copycats and cheaters in this class, Miss Jones. Mr. Osborn's not one of them. So kindly leave this room and go to the Principal's office." The air drained out of the room as everyone stared at their teacher in undisguised stupefaction - Georgina included. She glanced at Janet and smirked at the sight of the latter's face growing redder by the second._

'God, I wish I had a camera.'_ Georgina thought as she rested her chin in her palm. _

_"Janet." The smile was gone from Proffessor Harrison's face now. The girl had pressed the pen to the paper so firmly that the nib had made a soggy black hole. "Janet, I'm going to give you until the count of-"_

_"Okay, okay!" Janet all but knocked her desk over as she climbed out. Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she began to walk towards the door. As she passed Harry's desk, she hunched over and spat in his ear, "Eat _**shit**_." With that, she was gone._

* * *

"Maybe I should write about that." Georgina wondered out loud. "The great Oz outsmarting the wicked witch...and feeding her to the lions." The last part made her smile, but it was short-lived. She knew that she could never present such a story to the class. It would take them all little to no time to figure out which event Georgina was referring to. Janet wouldn't let it slide either.

Georgina shook her head and raked a hand through her curly, copper-colored hair. She wasn't afraid of Janet Jones - far from it. She could handle the girl fine on her own, but when Janet's little pack of friends tagged along, trying to fight against their taunts and shouts was like attempting to tear cement apart with her bare hands. Every school has one: a group of extremely rich, pretty, and (Georgina couldn't figure out why) popular girls. Your life was fine as long as you were on their good side, but if that wasn't the case...

_'And to think that I used to be friends with her.'_

It was funny, how two people as different as them could share something so fundemental: murder. Well, most of the students here were survivors from violent experiences, but it had linked Janet and Georgina, once. Both of them were completely and utterly alone. Janet's family perished in a fire, while Georgina's parents had been murdered during a bulglary. The thief had tried to silence her as well.

Georgina reflected on her first few months at St. Patrick's, how she'd been a trembling, silent shell of her former shelf. It had taken seven months with the school counselor in order to recover. Georgina had just emerged from the children's hospital and the stitches on her stomach had just been removed, but her mind had been in tatters. Georgina slipped a hand under her shirt and traced the long, jagged scar that went from her left lung to her right hip. It had stopped hurting over a year ago, but she could still feel a tiny spark each time she touched it.

Her hand plopped back on her desk, making the small jewelry box rattle. Quirking a brow, Georgina shifted her eyes from the blank paper to her treasure chest. A smile twitched at the corner of her lip as she extracted her treasures, one by one, and lined them up like ballerinas during a ballet. To anyone else, these objects would have been junk: a broken knight from a chessboard, a couple of silver buttons, a fuschia hair ribbon, a pine cone, and a quarter.

But to Georgina Thompson, they were as valuable as gold.

Suddenly, Georgina's eyes brightened. A smile slowly spread across her round face as her fingers curled around the hair ribbon. The silk sash tightened around her fingers, purpling them, as an idea took root in her mind. She shoved the rest of her treasures back into the box, sealed it shut, and pushed it under her cot. Then, she began to write. A small part of her brain wondered: _what's Harry going to write about?_

* * *

_"Once upon a time, there was a water nymph. She spent her days chatting with her fish friends, combing her hair, and watching the ships pass by. However, she never let herself be seen: it was forbidden for nymphs to reveal themselves to mortals, who had been hunting and killing them for centuries. But she was still curious about them._

_One day, she met a human girl who had hair as red as hers. That got the nymph thinking: maybe we're not so different after all. So she approached the girl cautiously, afraid to scare her away. But instead of screaming or running away, the girl asked the nymph who she was. The nymph smiled and told her._

_The two formed a secret friendship. Every day, the nymph told her stories of the river while the girl spoke of the land on which she lived. They traded gifts, too: the girl picked flowers, while the nymph gave her a hair ribbon. They spent many hours splashing and playing in the water, and at the end of it all the nymph would comb the girl's hair and tie it with the ribbon. It was the happiest either had ever been._

_But one day, the girl was followed. The local thief had noticed her bringing flowers to the forest and had wondered what she was doing. He hid behind a tree and watched her interact with the nymph. He was stupefied, but then he decided to steal the nymph and sell her._

_He followed the girl the next day, a knife in his hand. When she called upon the nymph, he appeared and stabbed the girl. He grabbed the nymph by the hair and tried to pull her out, but the moment she was out of the water, she died. But not before she twisted his neck. The thief died, but the girl was still alive. She crawled to the nymph and held her as she died. The girl still lives to this day, with a ribbon to remember her friend by."_

Georgina took a deep breath as she put the paper down. She closed her eyes to hide the tears that threatened to spill. As she did, she bathed in the warm applause of her classmates. She knew that it wouldn't last, that after this moment she would go back to being Lard-Ass, Night Crawler, and Weirdo. But just for a minute, it was nice to pretend. As the clapping resounded in the room, she looked down at the ribbon still in her hand. She remembered all the afternoons her mother had brushed and tied her hair with the ribbon. She recalled the days spent at the river next to their house, when their father was too busy to join them.

And the thief. Who could forget the thief?

"Very good, Miss Thompson." Proffessor Harrison's praise sent her heart soaring. "You wrote a very poetic, moving story. It reminded me of _'The Little Mermaid'_; the traditional fairy tale, I mean. Not Disney." He patted the paper. "You get an 'A'." Georgina grinned from ear to ear as the sadness slunk back beneath the surface. "Thank you, sir." With that, she walked back to her seat. There weren't any outstretched feet this time.

"All right." Proffessor Harrison checked Georgina's name off the list. "That covers Thompson. For the next tale, how about...Osborn?" A couple of snickers rose with the name, as though it had an amusing ring to it that only they could hear. Several students, including Georgina, turned to look at Harry. Like always, he was seated in the penultimate row, directly beneath the window. His skinny shoulders were hunched and his eyes darted from one direction to the next. At the mention of his name, whatever color was on his face evaporated.

"Would you like to share what you wrote?" Proffessor Harrison softened his tone, as if speaking to a frightened animal. Harry replied with one firm shake of the head.

"Oh, please? You have a room full of people interested in what you wrote." Proffessor Harrison asked in a 'pretty-please-with-sugar-on-top tone of voice. Harry rolled his eyes a full 360° degree before climbing out of his seat. Hushed whispers erupted as he made his way to the front of the class. Even from her spot in the third row, Georgina could see that his knees were knocking.

Scratching his temple with his pinky, Harry spoke to his paper. "Once upon a time, there was a rich, yet cold king. He may have had everything he could ever want or need, but he always sought out more. Furthermore, he was never satisfied with what he already had. For example, he had a young son. But the boy had ripped his mother open when he was born, and his father never let him forget that."

This was easily the most anyone had heard him say since his arrival nearly three months ago. Everyone was transfixed as the boy wove his tale.

"When the prince turned eleven, his father the king sent him to another kingdom. It was a kingdom clad in trees and hills, but the prince was not happy there. The kingdom was infested with harpies. Horrid creatures with bodies of birds and heads of old crones. They shrieked at him, pecked at his clothes, and spat in his face whenever he passed them. And to rule them all was a witch."

Georgina's eyes widened, and she turned to look at Janet. The girl had stiffened, but a vein was bulging in her temple. Her eyes hosted fire.

"The witch guarded the prince's door, keeping him from leaving. He ignored her spells and her cackles, but she persisted in keeping him locked in the kingdom. She liked toying with him, like a cat plays with a mouse before killing it. The prince pleaded the witch to stop, but she wouldn't listen to a word that he had to say. The only voice listened to was her own."

Janet was a statue of burning ice, and her manicured fingernails left deep scratches into the tale she had intended to present.

"The witch laughed at the prince and taunted him. 'You can't hurt me, I'm the almighty Witch!' She cackled. But the prince thought otherwise. So he dug a secret tunnel, went to his father's armory, and chose his best suit of armor. He had to face her, or risk having her hunt him down. That was why he went back to face the witch. He lit an arrow on fire and shot her in the heart. When their mistress fell dead, the harpies flew away. The gates finally opened, and the prince was free."

Harry looked up from his story. His pale blue eyes were like polished gems in the waxen sunlight, and they scanned each student's face. They rested on Georgina's face for a beat longer than the others. Then, they were on the floor again. He stood there before them, like a prisoner awaiting the words of the council.

Georgina began to clap; the sound was as loud as thunder. Everybody stared at her, but she didn't care. She simply continued to clap. One by one, the other students followed suit. Proffessor Harrison joined in, a smile on his whiskered lips. The corner of Harry's mouth rose the tiniest bit. It was subtle, but it was there. It made Georgina want to punch the air and let out a whoop.

The only person in the audience who didn't clap was Janet.

* * *

Georgina was halfway through her sandwich when the shouting reached her ears. She froze in the bench as the birdsong above her head faded. Her eyes slowly widened as she made out the voices.

"Hold onto him!"

"Grab his leg!"

"Ugh, I'm ruining my manicure!"

"Janet, come on, he's just a kid..."

"OW OW OW STOP IT! IT HURTS! PLEASE! STOP!"

"Harry." The sandwich crashed to the cobblestone road as Georgina raced across the courtyard. Her tangled hair streamed behind her as she hurried towards the sound, hoping that they were as close as it seemed. It took her less than a moment to spot the scene: the quickly forming crowd helped, too. Georgina shoved her way through the thick chain of kids, elbowing one student in the eye, as she made her way to the front. When she did, she gasped.

A boy that Georgina didn't recognize was holding Harry by the hair. The skinny boy was hunched over the fountain, inches from the water that the stone maiden was pouring from her jar. One girl - Carly Daniels, Georgina remembered - stood aside, wringing her hands nervously. Janet stood before Harry, her hands on her slender hips. "That story was based off me?" She hissed. "I'm supposed to be the witch?"

_ 'That and so much more.'_ Georgina thought but didn't say.

"N-no." Harry tried. "I-I made it up."

"Oh, don't give me that! I heard that little bullshit story - we all did." Janet turned to the crowd and pointed at Harry. "He wrote about all of us. He called us _harpies!_ He thinks he's better than us just because he's rich. He even calls himself a 'prince'!" The crowd began to curse at Harry and shout 'boo'. Carly opened her mouth, but then closed it. Her eyes shone with tears as she stared at Harry. She covered her mouth with her hand before running away, pushing through the crowd as she did so. Georgina watched her go, at a loss for words, when Janet's words recaptured her attention.

"He wrote about _all_ of us. He _trashed_ all of us!" She raised her arms as if expecting a hug. "Something needs to be done, am I right?" Her words were met with loud agreements. Smiling, Janet turned to the boy and nodded. The boy grinned before dunking Harry's head into the fountain. A flurry of bubbles rushed to the surface as Harry's body covulsed violently.

"NO!" Georgina rammed into the boy full force. He wavered but didn't let go. More bubbles rose, as did Georgina's panic. "What're you doing?! You're gonna kill him!" She began to punch the boy as hard as she could. "Let him go!"

The boy shoved her to the ground as Harry continued to kick and squirm. Yet the boy kept Harry's head underneath the icy surface, unrelenting. He had nothing against Harry. It could've been anyone, even Janet. That would've been okay, too.

Georgina let out a howl before picking up a stone the size of a walnut and throwing it at the boy's face. The boy winced and loosened his grip; Harry came sputtering to the surface, his light brown hair plastered to his brow. He gasped and heaved as he collapsed on the cobblestones. Water leaked into his eyes as he crawled backwards, lengthening the distance between himself and the other boy. Janet's eyes widened at the unexpected turn of events. Then, she spun on her heel and ran away. The crowd remained still, stupefied.

Harry continued to crawl, and Georgina knelt down in front of him. "Hey, hey, hey. Easy." She held her hands up. "It's okay, it's over."

"It's not." Harry's tears mixed with the water running down his thin face. He shook his head slowly, defeated. "It'll never be over." With that, he scampered to his feet and ran away as quickly as his gangly legs could carry him. Georgina could only stay there, staring at nothing but a few damp stones.

"Harry." She said before placing her face in her hands.


	6. Chapter 5: Punishment

_"I wish I could tell you that things change, that _people_ change. But they won't, not really. As Stephen King once wrote, people don't get better; they just get smarter. God knows the media's milked the Black and Green Night for all it's worth, but the lesson won't last. Sooner or later, there will be another Janet Jones and another Harry Osborn."_

_- Excerpt from 'We Survived the Black and Green Night'. This section was written by Carolyn White, a friend of Janet Jones and a survivor of the tragedy. Published on October 5th, 2014._

* * *

Chapter 5: Punishment  


* * *

The next day dawned as crisp and warm as bread fresh from the oven. Heat whitened the sky and turned the cobblestone path into a ribbon of hot coals. Georgina could feel her skin dampen underneath her arms and at the base of her neck, where the blouse was tightest. The rest of the garment was loose and flitting with every gust of wind, more or less concealing her bloated form. Georgina tied her fiery hair into a loose ponytail as her Mary Janes clacked against the polished floor. As always, she ignored the queer looks people sent her way. She had an objective in mind, and that was her armor in this battlefield.

Finally, just as her legs had begun to whine about the walk, Georgina found herself standing before the principal's door. It was the same as any door in St. Patrick's Boarding School: taller than her by a head or two, smooth oak's wood, and plainly designed. And yet, the door made her stomach do every single kind of acrobatic. She faltered for only a moment, teeter-tottering between knocking on the door or turning on her heel. If she went through with her plan, there would be trouble. If Janet found out, she'd turn Georgina's life into a living hell; it would be even worse than the time she read Georgina's diary out loud in the courtyard. Georgina might do something in retaliation, and it would land her into a mountain of trouble. She had promised her uncle to stay out of trouble. If she disappointed him, he might send her packing like her grandparents and her aunt...

Harry's face appeared in front of her like a stone at the bottom of a murky pond. She saw the light brown hair plastered to his forehead, the cool rivulets streaming down his gaunt face, and his eyes wide and rolling like a pig in the slaughterhouse. Georgina hadn't been able to get that picture out of her head all night. It had even gnawed its way into her dreams like a hungry rat, and Georgina had woken up in a bath of sweat and tears. She could still see the boy pushing Harry's head beneath the icy surface, his face as blank as the stones beneath his feet. But above all, Georgina could see Janet there, the ringleader of someone else's torment, as always.

But this time, she'd crossed the line.

Filling her lungs with oxygen, Georgina made a fist and rapped her soft knuckles against the wood.

"Come in."

Georgina obeyed as her worries slithered off her back like a cloak of steel. Whiskey-brown eyes so similar to hers glanced up, and crinkled with delight. The overweight girl managed a weak smile in reply. "Hey, Uncle Thomas." Her uncle rose from his chair and beckoned her forward with an ink-spotted hand. "Hello, honey. It's been a while since you were in here, eh?"

_'Yeah, since I put earthworms in Janet's bed a month ago. Ah, good times.'_

Rather than voicing her thoughts, Georgina dipped her head in a nod. "Yeah." She sat down in one of the chairs, taking the time to admire her uncle's office. It wasn't as fancy as one might expect. Behind her uncle were class photos of every graduating class the school had ever hosted. The oldest ones had nearly faded while the newer ones seemed to burst with color. Aside from the three chairs (two in front of the office and one behind it) and office, the room was scarcely furnished. A bookcase occupied an entire wall, some of the spines soft from years of use. In the corner was a tall brass lamp and a cozy-looking armchair patterned with intertwining vines and flowers.

A couple of oil-on-canvas portraits, darkened with dust and time, decorated the walls: one showed the Roman countryside; another the archangel Micheal; but the one that Georgina liked best was that of Jesus leading a flock of sheep up a grassy hill. Religion was hardly the reason behind her preference. Odd as it may sound, Georgina had always harbored a soft spot for sheep, especially lambs. How anyone could eat them, she would never comprehend. For some reason, Harry crossed her mind again; he was the lamb, and Janet was a wolf in sheep's clothing.

"So, uh, what can I do for you?" Uncle Thomas disrupted her thoughts with a concerned tone and a cup of tea. Milk and two sugars, he'd remembered. Georgina gratefully accepted the cup and took a sip. It hardly soothed the knot that her stomach had become. "Uncle...I gotta tell you something. I saw Janet...do something to Harry yesterday. During lunch." Uncle Thomas's eyebrows met in the center of his brow and shook hands. "What sort of 'something'?"

"The kind where you convince a big, muscle-headed guy to push Harry's head in the fountain."

"What?" Uncle Thomas's mouth hung open, a pink wet cave, before clamping shut. His face darkened like the sky at dusk; even though she wasn't in trouble, Georgina could feel her toes curl. But all she had to do was imagine Harry's face - an easy task, given how ready it was to haunt her - and found the courage to press on. "Yeah. I got him off Harry, but he'd have kept him down. I don't know for how long, but it wasn't gonna be soon." A vein bulged in Uncle Thomas's temple, and his face reddened so much that Georgina thought that he would have a stroke. He gave a brief nod. "Thank you for telling me, Georgina. You may go once you've finished your tea."

Georgina took another nervous sip. The sweet liquid helped her suddenly parched mouth. "What're you going to do?" She couldn't help asking. Uncle Thomas shook his head. "I'll talk to Coach Rogers. Jones has pulled a lot of stunts since her enrollment here, but this is too much."

* * *

The early afternoon brought with it a light drizzle of rain. It lasted no longer than fifteen minutes, but it perfumed the air with the clean smell of wet earth and chased the heat away. Gym had never been more welcomed. The class marched onto the dripping cobblestones, the St. Patrick's sigil gleaming on their left breasts like gems and faint smiles on their faces. They chatted as they waited for Coach Rogers to present himself. The day before, he had promised that they would play baseball, a rare treat at St. Patrick's. Janet looked forward to it as well: she'd always been a softball expert, and what was better than victory?

Coach Rogers finally made his way across the bath. He was dressed the same as any other day: white sneakers and matching socks, baggy shorts, and a sweatshirt with the school logo on it. The same battered baseball hat sat on his bald head. But for some reason, everybody caught the air of difference hanging above his head. When he finally reached the rows of students, he stopped. "Hello, class." He said in that booming voice of his. "I imagine you're all excited for spring break. It's only a couple of weeks away, after all. I'm sure you all have plans. I bet you're all getting ready to go to the tropics, or visit family members." He turned to look at Janet, who froze like a rabbit upon seeing a fox. "How about you, Jones? What're your plans?"

"I'm going to visit my aunt." Janet answered with uncertainty. "She lives in Vermont. She has this big house with a balcony and a garden."

"Hmm, nice." Coach Rogers stroked his chin. "Does she have a fountain, too? I understand that you're fond of those these days."

Janet instantly knew what her teacher was referring to. "I don't have to hear this." She started to walk away, but Coach Rogers stepped into her path. The fierceness in his gaze made her take a step back. Satisfied, Coach Rogers glanced at Cole - the boy Janet had convinced to assist her with the Osborn problem. "And what about you, Mr. Sears? Are you gonna drown animals for fun on vacation?" Cole's jaw tightened, but he offered no reply. Coach Rogers looked at everyone present, making sure each student saw the glint in his eyes. "You all did a shitty thing yesterday. A _really_ shitty thing." Students looked at the building, their shoes, or the damp stones on the path; everywhere but at Coach Rogers.

"Jones and Sears may have been the acting party, but standing by and doing nothing is equally guilty." Coach Rogers shook his head. "You all think Harry Osborn is full of shit; well, guess what. Every student here is full of shit, too." He removed his hat and ran a hand over his bald head. "It seems you've all forgotten what it's like to be new, to be alone in the world and with no one to help you. That's what this school is supposed to be, after all: a safe place for victims of violent circumstances."

"Osborn's not a victim." Billy Ramsay, a boy in the front, snapped. "He's still got his dad, and he's got more money than the rest of us put together."

"Yeah. I bet he's never even lost a pet hamster." A girl, Racheal Fields, snorted. "The guy shouldn't be here."

"Well, he is." Coach Rogers snapped, silencing more comments before they could arise. "Now, the school board declined my punishment: a week's detention, a call to all of your guardians, and a thousand-word essay on your responsibilities as students." Students murmured nervously, but Coach Rogers cut them off. "But they rejected it. It's probably because none of them were really bullied, so they don't know how truly nasty your action was. So, three days' detention." Everyone sighed in relief, but it didn't last. "It's going to be _my_ detention, though, and I'm going to run you ragged." Students shouted in protest, but he cut them off once more. "Enough! Thirty laps, now!"

And so they ran. By the twelfth lap, people were wheezing; by the twentieth, a few were slowing down. The sun, which had reclaimed its splendor during Coach Rogers' speech, mercilessly beat down on them. Drops of sweat mixed with the drying raindrops as shadows flitted on the stones. Janet's heart lurched and twisted in her ribcage and loose strands of hair clung to her neck and face. Everything hurt, yet she pressed on. It hurt...and for what?

She stopped running. Almost immediately, Coach Rogers shouted, "Jones, keep running!"

"Fuck you!" She yelled in return. More than a few students stopped running as though she'd lost her mind. Coach Rogers' jaw dropped. "Excuse me?" Slowly, like a wolf circling a deer, he prowled towards her. Janet held her ground. "I am _not_ going to run because Harry Osborn got knocked off his throne, ended up here, and decided to write a little story insulting all of us!"

Coach Rogers looked ready to slap her. Instead, his hands fisted at his side. "Janet, either you run or you're suspended."

"Fine!" Janet spat as her glower met Coach Rogers'. "But this isn't over. Not by a long shot!"

She was right.


	7. Chapter 6: Half-Moon

_"Dear Diary,_

_God, keeping a diary feels so lame; it's girl stuff. But trust me, I'm **not** doing it because I want to. The principal caught me crying the other day, after some kid dumped peanut butter on my head when I fell asleep. Okay, crying sounds even lamer than keeping a diary. But I couldn't help it; it just happened. Totally out of the blue. One moment I'm combing peanut butter out of my hair, and the next I'm sobbing like a three-year-old. Having the principal see me like that made it even more humiliating than it was; which, believe me, is saying a lot._

_Never mind, I'm getting off track. The point is, I'm supposed to write at least one page a day to keep my emotions from building up too much. I don't really know what the point is. I know I don't belong here, and I didn't belong at home, either. I know that my dad was more than happy to get rid of me. And I know that all the kids here either hate me or pity me. I can't decide which is worse. But I can't really blame them: I don't like myself, so why should others? Changing their minds is pointless, too. This is gonna sound cliché, but I wish there was someplace where I could just fit in._

_Being alone hurts. A lot."_

_-Extract from Harry Osborn's journal (December 3rd, 2005 - January 12th, 2006). Found in Osborn's apartment complex after the Black and Green Night._

* * *

Chapter 6: Half-Moon

* * *

With the first snowfall came a new student.

Harry was the first one to notice. The morning after the peanut butter incident, he hurried to first period class in an attempt to evade the knowing smiles and barely-contained giggles that had seemed to follow him everywhere yesterday. Well, truth be told, the stares happened every day; after three months, Harry had almost gotten used to people watching him like he was a carnival reject. But he couldn't stand those smiles; it was like the entire school knew some secret jest that he had been excluded from.

Harry walked the same way he had grown accustomed to: head down, books to chest, and long strides.

Something black caught his eye. Frowning, Harry glanced up and felt his heart sink like a stone tossed in the river.

There was graffitti on the lockers. Fresh, given the way it was shining in the early morning sunlight. There, black against the white lockers, were four words that made him want to cry all over again:

** HARRY OSBORN EATS SHIT!**

"No..." Harry's books tumbled before his feet. He tore his cardigan off, sending a few silver buttons clattering onto the marble floor. He wrapped the dark blue fabric around his hand before wiping at the message, hoping to clean it away. He scrubbed on the lockers until he could feel his hands stinging, but his previous judgement had been inaccurate. The message was fresh, but not enough to be wiped away; all he did was smear a bit of black on the white lockers, staining them gray. Harry didn't realize he was weeping until the message transformed into wiggly black lines.

The bell rang, signalling the beginning of first period. Harry cursed under his breath as he wiped his tears away. Once his vision cleared, he glanced at his cardigan: it was smeared with black paint, and threads had come loose. _'If I'd done this at home, Dad would've hit the ceiling.'_ Blushing, Harry stuffed the cardigan in his bag before gathering his books and hurrying to class. He cast one last look over his shoulder; the graffitti glared back at him, black as a coal pit.

Harry was among the first students to enter math class. He quickly claimed his seat near the window, in the very back. But as he placed his books on his desk, the morning's second color caught his attention. Instead of black, it was as bright and red as fire.

_'Georgina?'_ He twisted his neck to find not Georgina, but a redhead he'd never seen before. Like Georgina, her hair was as bright and untamed as a wildfire; but hers was kept in an artful knot above her head. This girl was far prettier than Georgina, truth be told. Instead of Georgina's flabby, bulbous body, this girl was as slender as a young willow. Instead of Georgina's oily, pasty skin, this girl had so many freckles that she almost looked tanned. The girl was dressed in a stylish miniskirt and a blouse, and a headband kept her hair out of her heart-shaped face.

He didn't realize he was staring until the girl caught his eye. "Why don't you take a picture? It'll last longer?" The girl snapped in an annoyed tone. Harry blushed all the way to the roots of his hair. "S-sorry." He quickly sat down and buried his face in his trembling hands. _'Damn it damn it damn it! How stupid could I look? Oh God why?'_ Underneath the thick mantle of shame, a tiny voice whispered in his ear. After a moment, he began to listen to it. This must have been a new student. Thus, she hadn't been marred by everyone else's distaste for him. Maybe, just maybe, they could become friends. The tiniest sliver of hope bloomed in Harry's heart, born admist fear.

Shaking like a leaf the entire time, he rotated his body so that he faced the girl. "I-I'm Harry, by the way. Harry Osborn."  
The girl's eyes - the dark blue of a stormy ocean - widened at his name. "Osborn? As in, Norman Osborn?"  
"My dad, yeah." A nervous smile appeared on Harry's pale face. For the first time, he was happy to have his father and not somebody else.  
"Oh my God, my dad works for your dad!" The girl's scowl was replaced by a smile. She held her hand out. "The name's Victoria. Victoria Enright."  
"P-pleased to meet you." Harry shook her hand, silently admiring at its smoothness. Still grinning, Victoria pulled back her hand and began to ask Harry about Oscorp. Unfortunately, being only eleven, Harry only knew a handful of details regarding his father's work. But he answered Victoria's questions to the best of his ability, and before too long the tension between them melted like summer snow.

It didn't take long for others to notice the new friendship. Janet's eyes narrowed, and she whispered in her friend's ear. Georgina watched the two interact and was surprised to feel a lump in her throat.

* * *

Morning classes came and went. Harry no longer shared classes with Victoria, but his spirits were so high that even the stars would have to look up to them. The daily insults and taunts fell right off him like arrows on a boar's hide. He practically skipped to the rest of his classes, and his smile was borderline creepy. Harry still couldn't get over it. After months of bullying and loneliness, he finally had a friend. Him, a friend!

Of course, Victoria couldn't hold a candle to Peter Parker. Peter had been his first and best friend, but with no Internet and a defective mail system, Harry had lost touch with him. Just like that, memories of the boy with the braces came to Harry's mind. Harry granted them entry as he made his way to lunch. He and Peter had hung out at school and afterwards, and every other weekened was spent either at his or Peter's house. Even though Harry had lived in a fancy mansion filled with antiques, Harry had always preferred Peter's residence. It was...cozier, and homier. Less quiet. Harry hated quiet.

A simper made its way on Harry's thin lips as he got in line for his food. The first time he'd met Peter, they'd been at the park. Harry had been skipping stones while Peter had been feeding the geese. The boys had argued over who should leave and who should stay. The dispute had resulted into a brawl that sent both boys crashing into the lake. The geese had honked so loudly that Harry had been convinced that they'd been laughing at them. The boys had wadded out of the water and taken their shirts off to dry. As they waited, they'd begun to talk and introduced themselves. They'd been skipping stones together by the end of the day.

Harry smiled. _'Peter,'_ He thought, _'if you were here, I wouldn't feel so alone. But I've got Victoria now, and maybe I'll be able to visit once vacation rolls by.'_ These pleasant thoughts kept him company as he seated himself next to Victoria. "Hi."

"Hey." Victoria barely looked up from her cellphone. The action dampened Harry's spirits slightly, but he brushed it off. "I got you a scone." He placed the pastry next to Victoria; but instead of smiling like he'd hoped, the girl wrinkled her nose as though she smelled something rotten. "No thanks. I don't like sweets." Harry felt like he'd been slapped. He loved scones! Of course, one could never tell given his thin frame, but he'd been eaten them for as far back as he could remember. Blueberry was his favorite.

_'Oh please don't make her think I'm boring! There has to be something I can-'_

"Oh, God." Victoria smiled at something, but it wasn't a kind gesture. It looked almost...feral, like a cat noticing a bird falling out of its nest. She cupped a hand over her mouth. "Hey, fatso!" Harry followed her gaze and found Georgina five feet away, frozen in her tracks. Victoria grinned, all pearly teeth. "I bet you leave footprints in concrete, eh?" Georgina's face hardened. She tilted her head upwards and continued to walk to her table. She may have seemed unaffected, but Harry saw her lower lip trembling slightly. A cold, bony hand reached into his chest and squeezed his heart.

Victoria snickered. "God, what a lard-ass. I swear, she's so fat that pictures of her fall off the walls."

"You shouldn't say that." Harry suddenly covered his mouth, his eyes popping out of their sockets. Victoria's grin slid off her face like rain on a window. Slowly, she turned to look at him. Her eyes were chips of dirty ice. "What did you say?"

"I-I mean you shouldn't say things like that." Harry knew he was walking on a tightrope, but he couldn't help what he'd said. He didn't consider Georgina a friend - he suspected that the only reason she talked to him was out of pity. But he was still grateful for the time she'd saved him from drowning. "She can't help the way she looks."

"Of course she can!" Victoria exclaimed. "It's not like she was born fat. She got that way from eating too much and not exercising enough. If she doesn't like the way she is, she's got no one to blame but herself." All of a sudden, she didn't seem so beautiful anymore. Victoria looked at him from head to toe. "I can't believe you'd defend her."

"I-"

"Hey, Victoria!" Red and light brown hair swung through the air as Janet - and at least four of her girly friends - marched towards the table. Harry felt like slinking under the table, but it was too late. Janet smirked victoriously at Harry before turning to the redhead. "Why're you hanging out with **_him?_**"  
"I'm starting to wonder, too." Victoria muttered. Her words stabbed Harry in the gut. Janet shook her head like a disapproving mother. "He's just a rich jerk who thinks he's better than anyone else. He even wrote a story about us: he described me as the witch who gets shot in the heart!"

Victoria's jaw dropped, and Harry all but screamed. "No!"

"Yeah, you did!" Another girl piped up. "You said you're the poor prince who had his eyes pecked out and his clothes torn by a bunch of harpies!"

"And you told on us!" Another girl said. "You told the teacher that Janet tried to drown you."

"No I didn't!" Harry shouted, fully aware that the entire cafeteria was staring by now. Victoria shook her head and began to collect her things.

"And when no one is looking..." Janet's eyes gleamed wickedly before she shouted at the top of her lungs. "_HARRY OSBORN EATS SHIT!_"

The room erupted into laughter. It was as loud and sudden as thunder. The cackles bounced off the walls like rubber balls as they climbed up and down the octave scale. It was a hideous, nasty sound. Before the tears came, Harry saw them all grinning and laughing, some students pointing and taking pictures. Tears bubbled in Harry's eyes as he pushed his way past Janet and ran out of the room. The laughter trailed behind him like a wedding train. Even as the door slammed behind him, it seemed to follow him, digging into his brain and picking pieces out of his heart. The little hope that had blossomed before shattered into a thousand pieces.

Little did he realize that his diary slid out of his bag and hit the ground.

_'Oh God why did I think I had a chance? Victoria will never be my friend now! I can't do this, I wanna go home! PETER!'_ He didn't stop running until he was outside. The cool, damp air brought promise of rain, and it helped clear Harry's head. He didn't stop moving until he was under a tree, which he embraced the way he wished he could do with his father. He buried his face in the wet, hard bark as sobs overtook his body. If he felt pathetic yesterday, he felt positively miserable today. He continued to cry until the his lanky body ran out of water, and even then he trembled with dry wails.

Finally, when his eyes felt swollen and twice their normal size, he began to calm down. He wiped his nose on the hem of his shirt and sat down at the base of the tree. Suddenly cold, he wrapped his rail-thin arms around himself as his eyes glanced up. The sky was as blue as a robin's egg, but he could see the ghostly shape of a half-moon. He continued to stare at it, desperate for some sort of distraction.

He didn't even notice Georgina standing by the window, his diary in her hands and a look of concern on her face.

* * *

Harry didn't show up for dinner. In all honesty, Georgina wasn't surprised in the slightest; if she'd been subject to such a humiliating experience, she probably would've packed a bag and hopped on the first bus. Oh, she'd been the butt of plenty of pranks: she'd lost count of the number of 'kick me hard' papers that had been taped to her back, of the outstretched feet and crumpled paper balls and remarks on her weight. But it was water under the bridge by now. Harry, on the other hand, was drowning.

His diary, tucked under her shirt, sizzled a hole in her flesh. She could feel the weight of his secrets, thoughts, and emotions dragging her down like an anchor. Georgina wanted to sneak a peek, but she didn't dare; Harry had endured enough. That was why she focused on the food under her nose and distracted herself each time her thoughts trailed back to the notebook._ 'It's a good thing I went after him.'_ Georgina thought through a mouthful of mashed potatos. _'If Janet got her hands on this...'_ She didn't even want to imagine it. She pushed her hair out of her eyes as she finished her dinner. Leaving the plates for the servants to collect later, Georgina rose from her pew and made her way back to her room. The notebook's metal binding was like ice on her skin.

She stopped walking in the corridor. In front of her, the stairs would lead her to the dormitory; to her right, the door led to the courtyard and, beyond that, the lake. Her secret place. Georgina shifted her weight from one foot to the other, contemplating, before finally making her choice. She made her way to the door, grinning at the prospect of the crickets' evening chorus and the moonlight rippling on the water. It pulled her to it like no magnet ever could.

* * *

Georgina was called 'Night Crawler' for a reason. Every night, long after everyone else had gone to sleep, she drifted through the schoolgrounds like a ghost. Usually, she sat by the lake and stared at the rippling water. Once or twice, she collected wildflowers or caught fireflies in a jar. But tonight, she found something better than a flower or a firefly. She found Harry Osborn sitting on the fallen log she usually used. The moonlight painted his thin face white, and his eyes were almost translucent.

Georgina's jaw dropped. Her hand trailed the notebook's outline under her shirt. If she made her presence known, how would he react? Twice he'd fled from her. Why should this time be any different? There was only one way to find out. Filling her lungs with air, she stepped towards the log. "Hey."

Harry yelped as he jumped three feet in the air. He spun around, eyes wide, to face her. When he recognized her face, his own radiated embarresment. "H-hi." He quickly lowered his gaze. "Um, what're you...?"

"I come here every night." Not wanting to delay it, Georgina slipped her hand under her shirt and produced Harry's diary. "And I think this is yours." Harry's eyes grew to the size of oranges as he took in the familiar sight. "That's my..." He swiped it out of Georgina's hands and rolled it in his own, as if he expected it to turn to smoke between his fingers. "I looked everywhere for it. Where did you find it?"

"In the hall. You dropped it today when you...left." Georgina swerved around the uncomfortable topic, but melancholy settled on Harry's face. He hung his head. "Everybody here hates me."

"That's not true." Georgina said at once.

"Well, they should!" Harry cried, his voice cracking like a whip. Even in the dimness, Georgina could see that his eyes were glassy with tears. "I killed my own mother. I cut her open when I was born! My father can't even look me in the face without thinking about it. The only friend I've ever had is thousands of miles away and...and..." Harry's face caved in, and he hid it with shaking hands.

Georgina was at a loss for words; she could only stare at the boy as he sobbed his heart out. He'd barely spoken ten words to her since he arrived, and he'd barely said a word about his family or where he came from. Every word had dripped with pain and anger, and all of a sudden she felt guilty for not making a greater effort to befriend him. He was even more lonely that she'd been.

Silent as a shadow, Georgina sat beside him and coiled a flabby arm around his shoulders. Harry paused for an instant, but his sorrow was too great; soon he was weeping inconsolably, but that didn't stop Georgina from trying. She gently rubbed his back and whispered almost wordless comforts to him. Beneath his thin shirt, Harry's vertebrae stuck out like a chain of ping-pong balls. Eventually, Harry's tears dried and his wails died down. He wiped his nose until his sleeves with slimy with snot, but he refused to look her in the eye.

Georgina waited for a few minutes, allowing the boy to bask in reticence, before speaking up. "I don't hate you."

Harry said nothing.

"And I don't pity you." Recognizing the lie, she quickly came clean. "Okay, maybe a bit."

Harry snorted.

"But that's not why I want to be your friend." Georgina said. "Dude, I know what it's like to be alone."

"How?" Harry's voice was stiff and wooden as a board. "How can you know?"

Georgina hesitated before filling her lungs with air. She felt like an acrobat right before he/she leapt from the safety of the tightrope and into the vast emptiness below. "My parents were stabbed to death. It happened right in front of me."

Again, Harry was silent; but Georgina felt him stiffen beneath her fingertips. She pressed on, each word a stone in her heart. "It was right after dinner. We'd gone out to eat, to celebrate my good report card." She chuckled at the memory. "We even stopped by a carnival and Dad won me a stuffed blue monkey. I brought it with me, but I hardly ever look at it. It's got a few bloodstains that never washed out." Her voice grew leaden. "But then we saw that the front door was open, and Dad had locked it before we left the house. I saw it. So Dad went in first; Mom followed, and I was last. Our apartment had been trashed. Paintings had been knocked off the walls, drawers were pulled out, it was a mess. The lights had gone out, too. Dad turned to tell Mom to call the police, but he didn't get the chance. The...thief jumped out."

Her voice shivered like a leaf caught in the wind. "They rolled around on the floor, but I saw silver. There was this horrible slush noise, like when you cut a watermelon. Then I heard it again; and again; and again. I heard my dad choking, and I felt hot blood on my feet. It happened so fast..." Georgina wiped the corner of her eye. "My mom and I...we were terrified. We couldn't move. But my mom finally snapped out of it and pushed me to the door, but the theif came for her next. He stabbed her in the back. She was dead before she hit the ground. Then...he came for me." Georgina swallowed. It made a loud clicking sound. "He swung his knife, but I fell backwards and managed to find a police car half a block away. But I had to be taken to the hospital. He'd cut me up pretty bad, but I hadn't noticed at the moment."

To finish the tale, Georgina lifted her shirt to reveal her soft round belly. Harry's eyes widened to the size of kiwi. There, going from her right hip to her left side, was a long jagged scar the color of salmon. The stitch marks were faded yet still visible. Georgina let the fabric fall over the scar, concealing it once again. Her eyes were brimming, but her voice was steady. "So...that's how I know."

Harry nodded, unable to speak. The two sat in silence for a long time afterwards, staring at the inky lake and the glowing clouds of fireflies. They refrained from talking, but they sat close enough to feel each other's body heat. They would do this the next night, and many nights afterward.

Above them, the half-moon shone brightly.


	8. Chapter 7: Hopeless

_"All children, no matter how 'old' or 'mature' they claim to be, need a safe haven they can escape to when the world threatens to swallow them whole. They need a place where they can feel secure and loved, someplace they can run towards when the outside is too much for them to handle. Usually, a safe haven stems from a stable house life and a caring, supportive family._

_While many researchers have more questions than answers regarding young Osborn's upbringing, the possibility that his father's behavior towards him contributed to the Black and Green Night is impossible to deny."_

_- 'The Prevention of Another Black and Green Night', pg. 3.  
Published on July 11th, 2014_

* * *

Chapter 7: Hopeless

* * *

With each passing day, summer vacation lay gaping before Harry like an open wound.

His unease grew alongside the sunlit hours, and while everyone else's sweat was light and eager with anticipation, his flowed down his legs in icy rivulets. While all of the other students basked in the hot spots of sunlight at every given occasion, Harry remained in the shadows like a stranger.

Chatters of plans to the beach and exotic lands filled the air like a retreating flock of birds, while the skinny pale boy remained as tight-lipped as a rag doll. June was lumbering into view by the time he decided to ease the burden from his thin shoulders and speak to someone else.  
It didn't take a genius to figure out who that individual might be.

As the sun - a gigantic blazing egg yolk - emanated powerful waves of heat, Georgina and Harry sat in an oak tree's blissfully cool shade. Ever since that fateful night under the half-moon, this tree had become their almost religious eating spot.

Their shared lunches were propped upon the stolen tablecloth like troopers reporting for duty. Georgina flicked a black ant away from a cupcake before picking up a sausage roll. She bit into it with feral resolve. "Whutryoo scho wurreed uhbout?" She asked through a mouthful of soggy dough and salty meat.

Harry shuddered before taking a miniscule bite from his fruit salad. "Georgie, please..."  
Bright brown eyes lit up like rusted pennies thrust in the sun. "Oh, wught." She swallowed with a loud _click_, evoking another shudder from the boy. Georgina dragged a fleshy hand across her pink lips. "I said, what're you so worried about? It's just your dad."

"Just my...?" Chuckles tumbled from Harry's lips like overripe apples from their branches. He shook his head as Georgina arched an auburn brow. "What's so funny?" Harry managed to recompose himself before answering. "He's not _just_ my dad or _just_ Norman Osborn. He's _the_ Norman Osborn." He could already see the annoyance funneling into her eyes as he continued. "My dad's one of the most important men in the United States of America. He's even richer than Bill Gates. He's got every labratory on genetic engineering in his pocket." Harry frowned, as if straining to hear a distant sound. "He's always been a cunt."

Georgina cracked a smile. It was smeared with flakes and squishy strips of fruit, but it lightened Harry's heart all the same. It faded all too soon. "You didn't answer my question." She informed him.  
Harry sighed. "Yeah, I noticed." He combed his hair away from his damp forehead. As he spoke, he stared at the cupcakes Georgina had slipped past the lunch lady. The blue frosting was already beginning to melt, but it was easier to focus on the pastries than his friend's unwavering gaze. "It's just...I feel like I'm going to a stranger."  
Georgina frowned and rested her cheek on her fist. "What do you mean?"

Harry continued to stare at the cupcakes. A single-file line of black ants were marching towards the gooey blue mounds. "I killed my mom. My dad never let me forget it. For as far back as I could remember, he's found every reason to stay away." He snickered. "I bet he's only taking me back now because the judge said so."

Georgina shook her head, making her bright red locks whip the air. "No, you didn't kill your mom. She died in childbirth. And sometimes, it just happens." Just like all the other times she'd said it, her tone was pleading. She always sounded...desperate too, as though her very existence depended on his acceptance. Harry never understood why it mattered so much to her.

Now, it was his turn to shake his head. "No. I cut her open. If it weren't for me, my dad would still have his darling little wife." A couple of ants were climbing up a cupcake's soggy wrapper. Soon, they would reach the sugary feast. "I never should've been born."

"Well, I'm glad you were."

Harry's eyes widened. He turned to look at Georgina, who had forgotten all about her sausage roll. "If you hadn't been born," she spread a hand over the food, "I'd be sitting here stuffing my face like a friendless fat loser." Harry stared at the treats before glancing at his friend. The corner of her mouth was twitching; that was all it took for them to share a hearty laugh. Harry was surprised at how easily it came to him.

"Don't worry." Georgina patted his knee once they'd finished. "I'll write you a letter every single week." She pointed at him with mocking severity. "And you'd better answer, Osborn. Or I'll march to New York and chop your hands off."

Harry snickered at the threat. "E-mail exists too, Georgie."

Georgina blew a raspberry to show her opinion on the technological advancement. She tucked some crimson ringlets behind her ears. "I don't like 'em. I mean, there's no..._humanity_ in e-mail. You can't feel closeness to the person who wrote to you." A small, sad smile appeared on her face. She stared at the feast without truly seeing it. "I remember when I was seven. I went to summer camp. My mom wrote to me every other day. I..." She swallowed hard. "I still have all those letters."

Wispy tendrils of the past coiled around her brain. She recalled that summer all too well. It had been a mixed bag: she had loved birdsong and crickets' chirping, and the exposure to nature had been rinvigorating. She had adored the s'mores and the campfire songs, no matter how forced they may have seemed.  
But the rest had been a nightmare. Even as a young child, Georgina had been plump. She had known it, and so had the other children. Once, when she'd feasted on freshly baked brownies, a girl several years older than her had passed by and taken it out of Georgina's hands. "You'll thank me one day." She'd laughed. "When you can wear pants _without_ elastic bands."

Even now, Georgina could feel fire ignite in her face and ears. She still could not decide what had stung more, the sensitive topic the girl had ridiculed or the casual cruelty that had laced her behavior. But Georgina shook it away like a dog trying to dry its coat. "Anyway," she gave a queasy smile, "even if you don't like it, it's only for three months. And you'll have Peter, won't you?"

Harry smiled genuinely at the thought of his four-eyed friend. "Yeah." He turned to Georgina, and for the thousandth time he felt gratitude for her presence. "And don't worry, I'll write you back." He placed a hand over his heart and felt the seed of hope that she had planted. "Promise."

Georgina nodded once, though the smile she was wearing erased all seriousness. "Good." She gestured at the cupcakes. "Can you pass me one before the ants eat it all?"

* * *

Words scrawled along the margins of Harry Osborn's diary, on the same page as his father's photograph:

_"I'm so tired of being what you want me to be_  
_Feeling so faithless, lost under the surface_  
_I don't know what you're expecting of me_  
_Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes."_

* * *

A week later, Harry was sitting in a first-class limo with Donald Menkin by his side and a Diet Coke in his hand. He hadn't spoken a word to the vice president of his father's company, nor did he need to: Lord knew the man talked enough for the both of them.

"...now, Harry, I know all this may seem boring to an eleven-year-old, but you have to remember that one day all this will be yours. And the last thing I want to do is work for an amateur. So, here's a list of companies that have debts with OsCorp and..."

His words fell around Harry's ears like autumn leaves. The boy nodded whenever he felt was necessary; but other than that, the only part of him that was present was his body. His eyes followed every familiar building and the ghosts that wandered the streets. The ghosts of two boys.  
The car passed a candy shop where Harry and Peter had gone every day after school. The previous block was coated in chalky hopskotch rectangles where they had made bets on who would last the longest.  
The memories washed over him, threatening to drown him, as his hands gripped a rectangular box. Georgina had given it to him earlier that day, when they had said goodbye at the doorway. "But you can't open it yet!" She'd squealed as her soft hands closed around his osseous wrists. "Open it when you're alone."  
"Why?" He'd asked.  
Georgina had smiled then. "If other rich people see it, they'll laugh."

Even now, it made him smile.

"Harry?" Mr. Menkin asked. "Are you listening to me?"  
_'I don't have to listen to you.'_ Harry mentally growled. _'I have more money than you ever will.'_ He wanted to say those words so much, but he knew that it couldn't be done. He could act that way towards the staff at St. Patrick's, but not here. Here, he had to be Norman Osborn's sole son and heir. Keeping his face as cool as a cucumber, he replied. "Yes, sir."  
"Good." Mr. Menkin nodded. "Everyone always says that kids should find themselves. But really, it's rubbish. Kids have to listen to their elders; otherwise, they'll just commit the same mistakes the previous generation made."

Harry chewed on his bottom lip as the words formed in his throat and sat on his tongue.

The car ride pressed on in the sort of silence everyone dreads. It staled the air, pressed against the cool windows, and curled around Mr. Menkin's and Harry's throats like angry fists. In the following twenty minutes, they were in body casts: they could not move, speak, or look at anything but dead ahead. Or, in Harry's case, out the window.  
The golden beams reached out from the trees' branches and touched his cheeks, as gentle as a mother's kisses.

_'Mom...'_ Harry closed his eyes, but it did nothing to shut out the picture. _'I'm sorry.'_

Beneath his feet, the engine purred and began to die. Harry's eyes flew open just in time to see the Osborn mansion rise from the ground like a zombie. The boy pressed his face against the window, his breath fogging the glass, as he took in the sight. It was easily thirty floors of solid, polished marble sitting in the center of a botanical garden Harry knew was used for research as well as beauty. It was everything a person could dream of, and more.

_'Then why aren't I happy?'_ Harry thought as the car smoothed to a halt. He counted to three before the driver climbed out and opened the door for him. Even when the warm summer air billowed in his combed hair, the boy did not move. It was the polar opposite of his arrival in St. Patrick's: then, he had been denying his predicament, but now he was all too aware of it.  
_'I got out of one cage, and ended up in another.'_

"Little man?" The driver tilted his head towards the door. "Your father is waiting for you."  
Harry clutched Georgina's gift to his chest like a drowning man grabbing a plank. Filling his lungs with warm sweet air, he gave a quick nod and climbed out of the vehicle. His cold feet carried him up the steps as the driver collected Harry's luggage. The doors opened like a predator's hungry jaws, ready to swallow him whole._ 'Just relax already.'_ A voice not unlike Georgina's whispered in his ear. _'He's your dad. He's not gonna eat you. He'll probably just ignore you like he always does.'_

Chorused footsteps echoed through the empty mansion as Harry, the driver, and Mr. Menkin walked through the door. Pale blue eyes watched as the crystal chandelier a above his head cast dozens of rainbows on the polished floor. Pale marble statues, some lacking in limbs, eyed their unexpected visitors with distrust. A few of Harry's grandfather's hunting trophies were nailed to the wall, staring at him dolefully with black dead eyes. It was always the stag in particular that made him avert his eyes.

As the driver and Mr. Menkin began to speak of things that couldn't be less significant to an eleven-year-old child, Harry became aware of a peculiar odor. It was a musky, closed-in smell, like a damp old cloth. But beneath that was the sickeningly sweet pungency that people pray to be spared from.

The smell of death.

Harry turned towards his father's door. It was located away from the bright sunlight, nestled deep into the shadows like a baby bird under its mother's wing. The mere sight of it chilled the boy's blood, especially since the stench strengthened when he faced the door. Harry's sinking horror must have shown on his face, for the driver halted the conversation and spoke to him in what sounded like concern. "Little man?" He asked. "What's the matter?"

Harry's tongue suddenly felt as dry as a dead tree. "M...my f-father..."

"Oh." There was no melancholy in the driver's voice, but there was no joy either. "Mr. Osborn isn't feeling too well right now." Seeing the boy's paling face made the driver add, "but that's only temporary. By dinnertime, he'll be himself again."

That was a lie. Harry could hear the falseness of the driver's words, as hollow as styrofoam. That was why, once the two men resumed their tedious conversation, Harry began to pace towards his father's bedroom door. With every step towards it, panic squirmed in his gut like a basket of snakes. The odor coiled around his head like a smothering cloth, cutting everything else off, as he left the summer's sweet caress behind. The shadows crept at his feet like mist at sundown as his eyes glued themselves to the door.

What was waiting for him on the other side of it? Was his father really so ill? Somewhere in the tenebrous crevices of his mind, Harry knew that he should have been repelled by the atmosphere rather than drawn to it. But he found himself unable to turn on his heel. It was the curiosity that Pandora had when she unclasped that box. Only, with a bit of luck, Hope would not fly away as well.

Silent as a robber, Harry turned the key and gave the door a gentle push. Air rushed in, and he supressed the urge to gag. The stench of decay was a dozen times stronger than before, mixed in with the closed-in smell that rooms develop when they hadn't been aired.

Harry remembered three years ago, when his dog Chester had recieved a nasty gash while chasing a rabbit down its hole. Because of the dog's shaggy, unkempt fur, nobody had noticed the injury. The cut had gotten infected, and the poor animal had suffered for three days in a row before Mr. Osborn put it to sleep. Now, the room smelled worse than Chester had.

Pulling his shirt collar over his nose and mouth, Harry slipped into the room. It took several moments and a lot of blinking for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness. The thick velvet curtains were tightly drawn over the windows, and the only illumination came from machines surrounding his father's bed.

_'Oh, no...Dad...'_

Harry felt a lump form in his throat as he dared himself to approach the bed. The sheets were damp with vomit and pus, and his father was as still as a log. His graying hair was plastered to his brow, and his eyes were closed. It must have been the lighting - or lack thereof - but Harry thought that his father's skin was green.

How do you know if something is alive? You check for a pulse.

A trembling, porcelain hand reached out and traced Mr. Osborn's throat...

...and retracted as a pair of bloodshot eyes flew open. Harry gasped and stumbled back as his father swung both hands at him. His forehead ignited and hot blood ran into his eye. Harry collapsed on his rear and clutched his bleeding forehead as pained howls escaped his throat and mixed with his father's. Tears mixed with the blood as he crawled away from his father.

"What're you doing here?" His father bellowed at him as hands covered his face. "Go. GO!"

"No, Daddy, I'm sorry..." Harry blubbered as he continued to crawl backwards. His forehead was throbbing now, and he was openly weeping when the driver's strong arms wrapped around him. Harry's vision blurred as the driver covered the boy's ears, but nothing could block out Norman Osborn's screams.

"Get him out of here!" He was shouting. "I want him out of my house!"

Harry continued to sob and closed his eyes as the driver gently picked him up. As the stink of illness gave way to fresh air, Harry realized that he was nothing like Pandora at all.

Hope had flown away from him, too.


End file.
